


A Vision Slowly Creeping

by lola381pce



Series: Chemical Cocktail [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death Fix, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola381pce/pseuds/lola381pce
Summary: Prompts: Last Kiss / First Kiss / Returned from the dead kissThis has been on my mind for a while... I'm sorry?
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Chemical Cocktail [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635874
Comments: 19
Kudos: 67





	1. Last Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Simon & Garfunkel's 'The Sound of Silence'. It's haunted me for years.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one is set at the end of The Avengers during the end scene in the shawarma restaurant. Chapter one is not a fix-it - it's is all angst told from Clint's POV.

Clint's shattered. It's been a shitstorm of a few days. He desperately wants to see Phil and kiss the hell out of him but that's another story, X-rated if he has his way. It's early days in their relationship but damn it's intense.

Despite both of them being assigned to Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S., they've hardly spent any time together. A couple of meals here, a few hours sleep there, a cup of coffee when they could manage. And one hurried yet intimate bout of lovemaking before Clint headed to his nest to watch over Selvig and his shiny new toy, and Phil disappeared to coordinate and monitor the facility. Lovemaking that had them softly, quietly gasping the other's names whilst pressing lips against fevered skin.

Then all hell broke loose.

The Tesseract woke up. Loki got inside his head. All the horrors of everything he did - was forced to do - before Natasha knocked seven shades out of him on the helicarrier to bring him back (may all the gods and goddesses of the nine realms bless her and keep her safe for doing so).

And after those long, nauseating, and unimaginable few days, there was the Battle of New York.

Jesus! He's lucky he's still upright.

And now here they are, the Avengers, together in a shawarma joint that’s barely standing itself, half-heartedly stuffing themselves full of different kinds of meats and veg and pitta bread - chewing mechanically, unable to talk because they're so fucking tired.

Until Thor raises his glass to make a toast. “To our fallen brothers and sisters lost this day. Brave souls all.”

Fuck! Clint drops his gaze. If it wasn't for him...

Stark throws something at him, a piece of cold falafel that breaks apart on impact. Ew!

“Uhh not your fault, buddy. Okay? None of it.”

Easy for him to say. But Clint can see it’s heartfelt and he takes Stark at his word and nods like he's supposed to. Thor looks like a kicked puppy and seems like he's about to apologise so Clint lifts his drink saluting the Asgardian accepting it before it's given. Thanks but no thanks. He doesn't want to hear that song. The tune's okay but the words fucking suck.

Then Steve Rogers - Captain goddamn America himself - stands and holds up his tumbler pausing for a moment perhaps to phrase what he wants to say in his head.

Clint keeps his head down but looks up at him through his eyelashes. Captain America’s about to make a toast and he's gonna be right here for it. If only Phil would hurry his ass up and finish whatever he’s doing so he can join them. Clint's not heard from him since... well, since P.E.G.A.S.U.S. Not unusual in the middle of an op - and this has been a hell of an op - but still. He’ll be sorry he's missing this. He ducks his head further and smiles softly to himself. Man, he's gonna be so pissed.

Steve clears his throat. Clint pays attention, ready to commit it all to memory to relay it back to Phil later. He’d use his cell to record it but… well, kinda tacky.

“I didn't know Agent Coulson well, in fact, I only met him a couple of days ago though I believe he's been watching me while I slept.”

Clint smirks, the barest quirk of his lips, while Steve pauses for a moment to smile sadly at some private joke he's apparently shared with Phil. Aww! They had a moment!

“And I'm sorry I didn't get to sign his cards as he asked me to…”

“It’s a vintage set... near mint. Slight foxing around the edges,” Clint paraphrases Phil in an amused murmur. They’re pretty fucking perfect as far as Clint can see but Phil always downplays them. Jeez! The man is such a geek.

“...but Agent Coulson seemed like one of the good guys…”

Wait, what? Clint frowns through his smile. Seemed? Natasha stiffens in her seat and he catches her giving him a worried glance. The fuck? A shiver rolls down his spine leaving him cold. So cold. His smile fades from his face and his stomach lurches threatening to give up his shawarma as Cap continues.

“...someone you could depend on, someone to follow to the end of the line.”

Clint drops his legs from Natasha’s chair to sit bolt upright, the last of the pitta falling from his hand to the table. He can vaguely hear Natasha trying to get Cap to shut up by hissing his name but he seems to be lost in the moment and just keeps going.

“Fury said he died still believing in heroes. Well, I guess he didn't just believe that; he was one. A genuine hero. One who bravely gave his life on the helicarrier to give us a fighting chance. To Agent Coulson.”

NO! No. No. No. No. NO! Clint screams in his head. He pushes himself from his chair so hard, so fast it clatters to the floor making everyone jump.

“The hell, Legolas? Heart condition here,” Tony says patting his arc-reactor. He catches the expression on Clint’s face and the humour on his own evaporates.

“Clint?” he says carefully. “Buddy? You okay there?”

“No!” Clint shouts angrily, shaking his head and pointing at Cap. “No. You’re wrong. Take that back. Take that the fuck back. Right now.”

Surprised by Clint’s outburst, Steve ducks his head and tilts it to the side to peer at him. “I’m truly sorry, Agent Barton. I know Agent Coulson was your handler…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Clint spits at him, his body tensing for a fight.

Eyes full of pain and sympathy, Natasha reaches out to him but stops when he flinches and yanks his arm back.

“Aww Tasha, no,” Clint pleads with her, looking hurt and lost and betrayed.

Her eyes well up as she says quietly, “Мне так жаль маленькая птичка” _I’m so sorry, Little Bird._

“Please,” he whispers, his voice cracking on the word. His body goes limp, the fight draining out of him when she calls him by her pet name for him. Clumsily, he backs away from the table, unseeing, blinded by tears brimming in his own eyes, a deluge he’s holding back by sheer willpower alone. But willpower’s not quite enough for one determined teardrop that spills over and tumbles down his cheek shocking everyone.

Except for Natasha. She’s aware of that which the others are not. Clint hasn’t lost his handler. He’s lost the love of his life. Unspoken to anyone save a few trusted friends perhaps, but no less true.

"Take me to him," he tells her. He's not begging, he's not demanding but he’s not asking either. He sounds so like Coulson at that moment, suddenly calm and in control despite the trail of that solitary teardrop glistening on his cheek, and her heart twists in her chest.

"Fury might not…" she begins.

His look freezes the words in her mouth and she nods silently.

With a hundred questions on their lips but too stunned to speak, the others watch on as she leads him away, back to the carrier. Back to Phil.

* * *

Natasha had wanted to stay with him but Clint had refused, unable to do this in front of her. He's agreed not to disappear but to seek her out after he's done. He's not yet sure if that's a promise he can keep.

There are no shadows in which Clint can hide in the morgue. Like medical, the walls are white and clinical, broken only by the silver of the two postmortem tables and drawer fronts that serve to reflect the light into the room. He tries his damnedest though, squeezing into the corner beside a filing cabinet and bookshelf, crouching low making himself as small as he can.

There are too many bodies to house in the storage drawers. Seventeen. Seventeen he either killed or had a hand in their deaths. Right now he can’t forgive himself for any of them. No doubt Psych will have something to say about that, hollow platitudes about how it wasn’t his fault, but he honestly doesn’t give a damn. Not when one of those bodies is Phil who’s supposed to be alive calling him on his bullshit, his eyes warm and his barely-there smile soft. Instead, he’s one of the fallen, one of the seventeen.

The one who lies before him.

At least, he presumes the gurney in front of him holds Phil’s body. They wheeled it through from another room a few minutes ago, shrouded in an opaque body bag still zipped closed. He’s yet to summon the courage to step forward and open it. Maybe if he doesn’t, if he remains where he is, he can continue to believe it’s some sick joke Fury and Tasha are playing on him. A punishment for his part in events leading up to the battle.

But he knows the truth.

His hands are shaking. His breath is shallow and too fast. His stomach’s churning and there’s sweat beading across his forehead despite the chill of the room. Despite how cold he feels, inside and out.

They told him to take his time like he was someone who deserved their kindness, their consideration. Like he shouldn’t be in the brig on charges of treason. Of murder.

Enough! He says in his head. At least, he thinks it’s him. Be nice to hear someone other than Lo… Thor’s brother. Enough wallowing. Enough self-pity. He has a chance to say goodbye. Not everyone got that. Not everyone was that lucky. Ha, lucky! Yeah, right.

Taking a deep shuddering breath, he forces himself from his corner, pushing away from the wall with clammy palms, rising to move slowly towards the gurney dragging his feet with heavy steps as though they were made of lead. He stops beside it and reaches out his hand to open the bag but it just hovers there, trembling, millimeters from the zipper. He drops it to his side and continues to the door, his footsteps much lighter now he's making his escape. He can’t do this. He can’t…

Hand on the door handle, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder. Biting his lower lip, his fingers slip from the metal and he returns to the gurney. This time he opens the bag, pulling the zipper down without hesitating. It sounds deafening in the hush of the morgue.

Carefully he spreads the sides wider and whimpers as Phil’s face is revealed. His eyes are closed. His face is relaxed but the frown lines, that little triangle above his beautiful crooked nose, are still there. Less pronounced perhaps but there all the same. So are the crinkles around his eyes. If he weren’t so pale and his lips tinged with blue you could almost be fooled into thinking he was sleeping. Well, except for the silence. When he’s safe at home, Phil Coulson snores like a congested hog, and for the briefest moment, Clint smiles at the thought before it’s gone, lost in his grief.

Unable to take his eyes off him, Clint slides his hand inside the bag resting it against Phil’s cheek. His skin is icy to the touch but Clint doesn't jerk back as his instincts tell him to. He keeps it there, his thumb gently stroking Phil's cheekbone.

“Jesus, Phil,” he whispers, his voice rough and broken. “What did you do?”

He wants to scream and cry and beg. He wants to demand answers to why Phil thought it was okay for him to take on a demi-god alone. To clock out and leave him behind. To leave him in a world bereft of his mentor, his guide, his inspiration. The love of his fucking life.

Instead, he leans forward pressing his forehead against Phil’s.

“Sleep well, Boss,” he says softly and places a gentle kiss on his lips one last time.


	2. First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is the fix-it set during the pilot episode of Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Some angst with a happy ending told from Coulson's POV.

"Take me there."

Coulson can feel May’s eyes burnìng into him. He's aware of what he'd see if he were to look up; her expression would be carefully neutral, however, one eyebrow would be raised slightly in question or perhaps in challenge. He's also aware of what she'd see as she watches him, scrutinising him while he views the playback on his laptop; hands clasped on the desk in front of him, tense shoulders hunched forward, lips pressed tightly together with his mouth turned down and an look of concentration etched into his features.

He knows _she_ knows he's seen something but she doesn't realise the half of it. Even he's not sure of its significance as yet. He just knows he has to go there. See for himself.

There's a request with the Triskelion for earlier footage of the scene. Before the explosion and the rescue and the superhero landing. It's going to take a while. It's a priority for the S.H.I.E.L.D. IT gurus but not their only one. Not for the first time he believes they should have someone with serious hacking skills on the Bus. Be a damn sight faster. Fitz is good but he needs to be focussed on his engineering projects.

Eventually, May nods. "We leave in fifteen. I'm driving."

Coulson ducks his head to hide a smile. They'll be there in no time. May always drives like she stole it.

* * *

Partially hidden in the shadows of the doorway of a jewellery store, May observes Coulson approach the hotdog vendor from the other side of the street. He's chosen to go with his ordinary Joe persona instead of a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent, believing he'll get more useful information that way. May trusts his judgement.

His shirt sleeves are rolled up and the knot of his tie is tugged loose and sitting slightly askew below an open collar. He holds his jacket by the crook of his finger, slung casually over his shoulder, and at two in the afternoon he certainly looks like some overworked accountant or lawyer playing hooky or maybe just on the hunt for something tasty for a late lunch. His sidearm has been left with May for obvious reasons.

"Hey there," Coulson greets the vendor with a tired yet bright smile. "As the Buddha says, make me one with everything, please."

May rolls her eyes almost wishing she didn't have her comms unit in, but through years of working with Coulson, she knows the awful, not to mention offensive, joke will go a long way to remove any suspicions the vendor is likely to have when Coulson begins his interrogation. Not that he'll realise that's what's happening. It'll just seem like some random guy shooting the breeze.

In the reflection of the toy store window opposite May sees the vendor nod politely and smile back as he puts the order together. While he waits, Coulson drapes his jacket over his forearm and shuffles through his wallet for money. He takes the opportunity to gaze around him, studying all the evidence of the recent destruction and rescue: the shattered windows and burned out upper floors of the building opposite, the cracks and dents in the asphalt where the 'superhero' made his landing. A faint smell of smoke still clings stubbornly to the air.

"Wow! Looks like you had a near miss, buddy. Gas explosion?"

The vendor snorts at the question and looks at Coulson from under his blue flat cap. Holding out the loaded hotdog, he says, "That's what they're saying,” although it’s clear from his tone that’s not what he believes.

Coulson hands over a couple of bills in exchange for his food. "You think it was something else?" he asks, taking a huge bite of his dog. He chews and hums happily. May smirks knowing her old partner's weakness for good street food. With the near-pornographic noises he’s making, it must be pretty decent. She's just thankful he didn't go for a chili cheese dog.

"'s really good," he groans around a mouthful. He leans forward and takes another bite trying not to get any of the contents on his tie. Mustard and ketchup are a bitch to get out. Easier than blood though.

The vendor smiles at the praise. “Of course,” he says as though there could be no doubt his dogs are the best. He looks around him and leans closer to Coulson. “And yeah, I think it was something else,” he adds, in a conspiratorial whisper

Coulson stops eating and stares at him, his eyes wide. He swallows his mouthful in a loud gulp and says innocently, “You do?”

May smiles. Like candy from a kid. She's pleased he's not lost his touch since… since New York. She refuses to say "his death", it still hurts too much. For a moment, her heart tightens in her chest at the memory of being told her old friend was gone. The smile slips from her face as she forces the recollection aside and focuses her attention back to the conversation.

The vendor looks around suspiciously and nods. “I do,” he confirms. “There’s been weird comings and goings outta that place for months. Big trucks that say one thing on the outside and deliver something else from the inside. I never seen so many “washing machines” delivered to one place and by folks wearing white lab coats carrying those fancy electronic clipboards. Twelve of them in three months. Either they gotta serious limescale problem or something ain't right.”

Playing his role to a tee, Coulson’s eyebrows almost reach his hairline as he appears to hang on the vendor’s every word. Then he smiles and straightens up. “Aw, man. You nearly had me there,” he scoffs, taking another bite of his hotdog.

“I’m telling you,” the vendor protests. “This is my spot. Has been for fifteen years. I’m here every day from 6 am until 3 pm. I see plenty of things, hear even more. Besides, if it was a gas explosion why’d only take out the top floor?”

Coulson finishes his hotdog. Why indeed. The guy’s observant. And smart. After May and FitzSimmons’ earlier visit, they know the upper floor housed a lab even though it was leased as a self-empowerment centre. Either way, he figures four washing machines is a lot to go through in a month. The hotdog vendor is definitely on to something with his theory.

Coulson shrugs. “You might be right. I’m in risk management. For insurance, you know? It’s amazing what people try to get away with.”

Bernie waves a hand at his cart. "I sell hotdogs. Not everyone sees me and not everyone speaks to me instead of at me. But I hear the things they discuss. Hostile takeovers, insider trading, who's schtupping who in the copier room. I understand plenty about what people try to get away with."

Coulson snorts at that. Bernie's a funny guy. He likes him.

Interested to hear more but deciding he's pushed enough for now, Coulson wipes his palms and fingers with the paper napkins that accompanied his food and slips on his jacket.

“Phil,” he says, holding out a clean hand. Well, cleaner. “And your hotdogs... pretty amazing.”

The vendor takes it in his and shakes it. “Bernie. I know.”

Coulson grins and points his thumb over his shoulder. “Better get back to work.”

He turns to face the shop window. “Cool!” he exclaims as though seeing the display inside for the first time. “The Avengers.”

Across the street, May’s eyes widen. She's aware Coulson knows he worked with the Avengers however briefly with some of them, and that he died at the hands of Loki on the helicarrier bringing them together, but not what happened afterward. He doesn't know how he was brought back. He can never know.

Bernie laughs. “You’re not the only one who likes them. There’s a kid and his dad who come here a lot. The dad buys the kid a hotdog and he eats it staring in at that window.”

Coulson’s not sure if it means anything but he files it away anyway. “Hey, was it one of them who rescued that lady from the burning building? The Avengers?”

Bernie shakes his head. “Nah. Didn’t have a fancy uniform. Just chinos and a dark hoodie. Seemed like an ordinary guy except for the whole leaping outta buildings without getting hurt, thing.”

“Huh. Were they here that day?” Coulson asks, keeping his eyes on the window but watching the vendor in the reflection.

Bernie’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Just thinking it would have been pretty cool for him to see them in action and not frozen in a shop window. I'da loved that.”

The vendor’s expression relaxes at Coulson’s plausible explanation. “Yeah, they were here. The dad just bought the hotdog and the kid was staring in the window as always. I looked after him while his old man went to see if he could help.”

More information for Coulson to consider. “He got a favourite? Mine used to be Captain America,” he tells Bernie, turning to face him again.

“I dunno. I guess he stares at the Cap and Iron Man the most. Used to? You said used to when you mentioned Captain America,” he clarifies when Coulson frowns at him.

Coulson shrugs. “When I was a kid. Now though, I kinda like the archer guy. Hawkeye.”

May almost chokes on her own spit. It’s only years of training that stops her from reacting to Coulson’s announcement. Not so much that he’s apparently abandoned his childhood hero - god knows, she's seen the awful footage from the quinjet, the Cap is still his hero - but that he’s replaced him with Hawkeye. It sets alarm bells off in her head sending adrenaline coursing through her body.

May is one of the very few people who know about Coulson and Barton; that since Puente Antiguo, Barton has been more than just an asset to Coulson. However, when he woke from his treatment, Coulson had no memory of it. Of them. Having been told certain memories of his old life had been erased to keep him alive she'd never enlightened him. Is it possible his memories of before the Battle are starting to return?

“But he’s got no superpowers,” Bernie points out sounding a little disappointed in Phil’s choice. “He just shoots things with a bow and arrow.”

“I know,” smiles Phil. “Maybe that’s why I like him.”

Leaving Bernie to mull that over, he disappears into the shop emerging a few minutes later with two boxes. He hands one to Bernie. “Captain America. For the kid. I had a good month, thought I'd pay it back,” he says in response to the vendor’s raised eyebrow.

“Well, I’ll make sure he gets it next time they’re here.” He looks at the other box, a similar size and shape to the one he now holds. “Do I need to ask which other one you bought?”

Coulson ducks his head, tilting it to the side to look at the street vendor. “Be seeing you, Bernie,” he says, not answering the question. He doesn’t need to. The bashful smile and slight blush creeping over his cheekbones give it away. Both May and Bernie know exactly who’s in the box and while Bernie chuckles with amusement, it chills Melinda May to the bone.

*

"So, what was that about?" May asks. Although her attention remains fixed on the road ahead, she can sense Coulson raising a questioning eyebrow. She taps her finger on the wheel, three slow raps, signaling her impatience.

The corner of Coulson's mouth quirks up in a barely-there smile. "Trust, Agent May. It was about trust."

"Captain America perhaps."

She doesn't mention the second box currently sitting on Coulson's lap seeing as he'd refused to put it in the trunk. But they both know it's what she's alluding to.

That's when realisation suddenly dawns on May, and for a couple of seconds, she transfers her eyes from the road to Coulson who resolutely stares ahead. His face betrays him, however, a dusting of pink spreading across his cheeks in response. Out the corner of his eye, he can see May’s mouth is open slightly in a stunned look. He'll remember that fondly later.

"We came here so that you could buy a _Hawkeye doll_?" It's not often Coulson hears that incredulous note in her tone but today is one of those days. Again, fondly remembered. Later.

"Action figure. 1:6 scale." Phil corrects in the knowledge he's walking on pretty thin ice right now. To be honest he's not really sure where the impulse to buy the figure came from. Or confessing to Bernie. He just knew both felt right.

" _That's_ what you saw in the footage? _A Hawkeye Doll._ "

"Action figure. I had a hunch. Pretty sure we gathered valuable intel on that hunch."

May says nothing for a moment while Phil tries not to squirm in his seat. In his head, he considers the different ways he can get back to the Bus if she decides to leave him at the side of the road.

"Remains to be seen," she tells him, frostily. He's completely unaware her demeanour is hiding her fear that his memories, although jumbled, are returning. She's been read in on what that could do to him, and her chest constricts at the thought of it.

They drive back in silence. And later, when Skye, the Rising Tide hactivist he and Ward 'kidnap' and interrogate, inadvertently corroborates his hunch well, that's between him and his 1:6 scale action figure of the Avenger, Hawkeye.

* * *

As missions go, it isn’t the worst in memory. It feels good to be back in the field, having May by his side and a group of talented misfits providing back-up. Maybe not quite like old times but reassuring nonetheless.

The rest of the team has pretty much come together, although he still has his doubts about Ward. He might even have that hacker for the Bus he wants in Skye, for a short time at least, unless he can talk her into a more permanent gig. FitzSimmons have demonstrated their genius by pulling a last-minute miracle with a new weapon in the form of a knockout serum dispensed, in this case, by a sniper rifle. In the hands of Grant Ward, it had taken down Centipede-enhanced Mike Peters with nonlethal force and prevented him from exploding in a fireball taking with him Grand Central Station and Coulson's team (he'll have to revisit the whole 'Night-Night Gun' name though, it's apt but hardly befits a top-secret government spy agency). And Mr Chiseled Cheekbones has at least proved he’s a decent sniper if no Hawkeye.

For some reason, the thought of his old Strike Team Delta asset saddens him. He isn't sure why but it’s as though something... important is missing. Maybe it’s just because he’s tired. Scratch that. Exhausted.

The cleanup crew led by Agent Sitwell has arrived to take over the scene. Coulson’s more than happy to leave it in his capable hands and head back to the Bus for a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. He half-smiles at the thought of falling into his bunk as he leaves the terminal and walks to the SUV. Maybe it was like old times after all.

"Still a reckless motherfucker," a familiar voice rasps in his ear raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He barely manages to control the full-body shiver they invoke.

His upper arm is grasped in a vice-like grip but instead of defending himself as normal, Coulson allows himself to be spun around and slammed bodily against the exterior granite wall of the station. The sharp stab of pain that pierces his body, from the scar on his back to the one on his chest, forces his eyes closed and a hiss from his lips.

The steel band around his arm eases and he opens his eyes to stare into those of Clint Barton. Hawkeye. The sense of something missing is replaced by one of calm, of being complete. Unfortunately, the eyes glaring back at him don’t appear to have found the same.

“Being dead suits you,” Clint snears. “Or was it your vacation in Tahiti?”

“It’s a magical place,” Coulson answers automatically.

Clint stares at him, uncertainly. “What?”

“It’s a…” Coulson trails off, his brow creasing in his own frown of confusion at some momentary flash of memory before it disappears in another thought. "I have a Hot Toys version of you. Of Hawkeye. 1:6 scale."

Clint quirks up an eyebrow. This is familiar territory. This he can deal with. "And that makes everything better? Makes it okay that you… died? That you left me?" Coulson's eyes open wide at that. "I hope you and your scale version will be happy together. Apparently, the reality wasn't that great."

The hurt in his voice is unmistakable, but Coulson has no idea what he's talking about. What reality?

He reaches out but Clint quickly pulls back. Not quick enough, however. Coulson's fingers snag his sleeve before sliding down to capture Clint's hand. His grip is loose enough that Clint can pull away if he wishes. But he doesn't. He just stands there, his head hanging down, his shoulders slumped, misery rolling off him in waves.

"Barton, talk to me. Clint," Coulson amends softly. But Clint can't. There are not enough words to say what he's feeling and yet the three words he wants to say are too many. I love you. I hate you. I want you. I need you. I miss you. Go fuck yourself. He's not even sure which three words he means. All of them probably. Definitely.

Hours earlier when J.A.R.V.I.S. had shown him the footage he'd discovered, Clint had nearly thrown up. It looked like Phil. Jesus, it had looked like Phil. And a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents approaching an unmarked van. Phil with a fucking bullhorn in his hand just like Puente Antiguo, then pulling that awesome backbend to avoid being struck by the van's door as it hurled towards him. With his mouth hanging open, he'd watched Phil raise that bullhorn to his lips and try to talk down the occupants of the van the same way he'd confronted the Destroyer in the desert. Fearless and confident. And reckless as fuck.

Once he could breathe again, and white-hot fury had replaced the mind-numbing shock, he'd headed to Grand Central Station on his motorcycle demonstrating more than a little recklessness of his own. He had to see for himself. He had to know if the man on the screen was the man he'd lost on the carrier. The man he'd kissed goodbye nearly six months ago.

Clint lifts his head to stare at Coulson, searching his face. Coulson holds his gaze, steadily without flinching and it's all Clint needs to take a chance, a leap of faith.

Slowly, he lifts his free hand to Coulson's face, sliding his hand along his cheek to cup the back of his head, and leans in to press his lips against Coulson's. The kiss is gentle yet full of every painful emotion that’s flooding Clint's system. 

Phil's senses are on fire: the sound of Clint's breathing, and of his own, ragged and heavy; the sharp scent of anticipation and fear filling his nostrils; the taste of Clint's lips, rough and bitter and sweet; Clint's hand carefully holding his head, fingertips pressing into his scalp, not painful but not gentle either; the warmth of their bodies pressing together as the kiss deepens. Only his eyes are blind to all that's happening, closed to let his other senses accept it.

Eventually, they pull apart, forehead resting against forehead. It was all new yet strangely familiar. A first kiss. A millionth kiss. No, Phil realises. This was the feeling of being complete. And he was grateful for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the latest installment of my Chemical Cocktail series and for your encouragement as ever. Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Been a while, folks... keep rolling with the punches.


End file.
